


If These Walls Could Talk

by JokerzPrincezz



Series: Of Broken Things and Their Golden Gleams [12]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Arguments, Artist John Watson, Drabbles, FTM John Watson, Fluff, Getting Together, Greg and Mycroft get together, Love, M/M, Mycroft Being a Good Brother, Mycroft Worries, Past Child Abuse, Past Rape/Non-con, Past Torture, Sherlock Makes Mistakes, Sherlock's Mind Palace, Trans John Watson, Trans Male Character, established relationships - Freeform, non-graphic, one shots, pre-relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-25
Updated: 2019-07-01
Packaged: 2020-05-19 09:38:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 8
Words: 9,695
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19354363
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JokerzPrincezz/pseuds/JokerzPrincezz
Summary: A collection of shorts and one shots from the Baker Street Boys life.Short companion pieces and deleted scenes from my Trans!John series. Mostly fluffy, a little angsty.





	1. Northern Lights by Death Cab for Cutie

**I Remember Your Silhouette**

 

 

 

“What's it like?” John asked

“What's what like?” Sherlock responded, not looking up from where he was carefully cleaning his violin.

“When you delete something?” John asked thoughtfully, lazily. It was Sunday morning, the criminal classes rested. Ten AM and Captain John Watson MD was still in his pajamas, Sherlock Holmes was a bad influence, clearly. They sat in their respective chairs, barefoot, comfortable.

Sherlock paused momentarily, but quickly recovered. “That depends.”

“On?” John prompted. Sherlock cleared his throat.

“Many things. Have I lost the information, or have I purposefully removed it? Is it a memory or just a fact?” Sherlock shrugged.

“Ok,” John said, thinking slowly, “ok, how 'bout after your grandparents died? You said you purposefully wrecked that wing of your mind palace.” Sherlock grunted in acknowledgment. “What was _that_ like?” John pushed.

Sherlock slowed again; his mouth pulled down in a moue as he thought. “As though a tornado had gone through their wing in my mind. I found pieces of them scattered for ages, though the structures I created for them remained, the bare facts that any normal person would remember still intact but…” Sherlock's face pulled down, “but not the details. Not the tone of their voice, not the texture of their dressing gowns, not the single strand of hair that would never stay down and always fell in my grandfather's eyes. Not the dirt under my grandmother’s nails from the garden, or the exact shade of her lipstick. Not the wrinkles telling their life story written along their faces.”

“How did you get it back?” John asked in a muted, gentle voice.

Sherlock shrugged, “Related memories, mostly. I would find myself organizing new information or reviewing old information. It’s… set up like rooms and halls in my mind. Occasionally I would be perusing a room and find something of theirs under a metaphorical shelf, hidden behind other memories, combined with information that related to them.”

“And you got everything back like that?” John asked in wonder.

“I believe so, yes,” Sherlock confirmed, going back to cleaning his violin with vigor.

* * *

 

“Ok,” John said two weeks later, nursing a sprained wrist from a run in with a rather nasty identity thief the week prior. “How about information that you delete? I mean, did you _really_ not know about the earth going ‘round the sun? Or is it like the lost memories, where it’s eclipsed by something more important?”

“No,” Sherlock replied, dropping the ice pack in John’s lap as he moved to take up his place at the desk. “It's like… well, it's like a computer. When you drop something in the recycle bin you can find it again, but it takes a bit of digging. And eventually it fades away and you just… forget.” Sherlock shrugged. No more was said on the matter.

* * *

 

“What about memories?” John asked through his tears. He'd had a nightmare, spurned by their last case. A young girl had come to them, telling them she remembered being raped as a young child but had no resources to find the man. The culprit, a handsome man who now had a barely legal sugar baby, a large home, and a six-figure job, turned out to have been the older brother of the girl's childhood babysitter.

Memories were brought up for John after they broke the news to the girl. She found herself powerless to do anything in the wake of this information. The abuse had happened decades prior, and the man had far more money and connections than the simple schoolteacher could even dream of. The man would walk away unscathed, his reputation intact, the girl would have to live the rest of her life knowing the man she had remembered fondly as a brother figure had indeed been her abuser.

Sherlock froze from where he was hushing John and stroking the man's hair gently. “What about them?” he murmured, pulling John closer.

“What's it like when you delete them?” Johns voice was weak, stopped up, teary. Sherlock pulled John impossibly closer, the soldier went, curling himself into Sherlock's chest.

“It’s like someone ripping up a piece of cloth. The pieces are still there, though they don’t fit together.” Sherlock whispered, “the memory is softened by this mutilation, though never fully removed. And worse, there's no guarantee the pieces won't stitch themselves back together, given enough time.”

“Y-you remember all of it, don’t you? Siberia, I mean.” John whispered back, protected by the darkness of the night and cocooned from dead men's hands by his lover and the comfort of their bed.

“Every moment,” Sherlock answered somberly. “Some of it is removed, the pain is worn around the edges, no longer so sharp to touch. But the…” Sherlock froze here, before squeezing John and taking a shuddering breath, “the sexual assault I was subjected to… No matter how I try, it just seems to stitch itself back together, a tapestry of pain and humiliation I can't force away.”

“I'd take it for you if I could,” John whispered in a rough voice.

“And I'd take yours, gladly,” Sherlock replied in kind.

They fell back asleep wrapped in each other, safe in Baker Street, guarded against the horrors of the outside world by warm arms and warmer hearts.


	2. Talking to The Moon by Bruno Mars

**Talking to the Moon**

 

 

 

Sherlock was sat at the kitchen table, peering into an invisible microscope when John returned.

John felt tears of frustration well up in his throat, for this was, perhaps, the cruelest trick his mind played upon him. To offer him this shade of his lover, the man whose fate John was still unsure of. Three months this false detective had haunted him. Three months of wondering, if, perhaps, John had been left on that sidewalk with Sherlock’s body? Perhaps they were both nothing but ghosts, spirits floating through life, a sorry mockery of humanity.

“What’d I miss?” John asked sullenly as he slammed the shopping on the table, right where the imaginary Sherlock’s invisible microscope ought to be. The detective didn’t even flinch.

“ _Two armed men. Are they Mycroft’s or someone else’s?_ ”

“What does it fucking _matter_?” John hissed.

“ _They stood terribly close by._ ” Imaginary Sherlock looked up and gave him the look, but this time John didn’t snap about it, because technically speaking, John _must_ know what they were talking about, seeing as this Sherlock was born in his mind.

“I don’t care.” John snapped as he began to slam things around while putting the shopping up. The soldier blinked and Sherlock was in front of him, between himself and the icebox. John’s hand was straight through Sherlock’s chest.

“ _What if I’m still coming back? Would you care_ then _?_ ”

John was silent as he removed his hand from the hallucinated chest, going about his business with the rest of the shopping. The shade trailed him as he put up the toilet paper and replaced the empty box of tissues in the sitting room.

“ _They_ know _you know,_ _John_ ,” the shade hissed

“ _How am I to return if you don’t_ fight _?_ ”

“ _You can’t_ possibly _be falling apart this badly, it’s only been three months._ ”

“ _I wonder what I’m doing right now._ ”

John ignored him the best he could. But when it was time for bed the Shade lay down on top of the comforter, facing John as he hovered just a hair above the bed, not really touching solid ground. John just stared at him for a moment.

“His eye freckle is missing.” John finally said in a gruff tone.

“ _Better?_ ” the fake Sherlock asked after blinking, allowing the little dot of brown to bleed into his iris. John bit his wobbling lip and nodded. After a few moments the shade rose from the bed and took up a place at the window.

John fell asleep that night to the silhouette of his lost lover basking in the moonlight.

He hadn’t slept so well since the fall.


	3. Some Nights by Fun

**Some Nights I Stay Up Cashin' in My Bad Luck**

 

 

 

 

“ _Captain Watson!_ ”

“ _John_.”

“ _John!_ ”

“ _JOHN!_ ”

John shot up from his bed, gasping in ragged breaths and letting out little sobs. He whimpered as he curled in on himself. The bed felt too soft, the air too cool, the window… well, there _was_ a window. And walls. It all felt wrong. John sobbed again, the room felt tight, small, but also impossibly big. And he was but a minuscule man, watching the door from a thousand miles away.

Finally, John crawled from his bed, the memory of explosions and gun fire chasing him. He set both feet on the ground and cried out in pain as his leg gave out. He crumbled to the ground.

“Get up, Watson.” He hissed to himself, overcome with utter rage and frustration. He’d been living with Sherlock for almost three bloody months now, this wasn’t _supposed_ to bloody happen anymore. It wasn’t! He was _done_! He had what he needed, he had a new war, he had the excitement, this hadn’t fucking happened since he abandoned that little shite hole flat. So why now?!

After another moment John gave another small sob and lurched to his feet, steadying himself against the wall. He allowed himself a weak moment to whimper at the overwhelming turmoil within him, before squaring his shoulders.

As he shakily made his way downstairs, he was surprised by the sound of clicking china and boiling water. He furrowed his brow as he rounded into their living room. Sherlock cast an assessing look in his direction before swirling about the kitchen, flaring dressing gown in his wake. A moment later Sherlock whirled back into the living room, setting the tea tray on a table between his chair and John’s. Sherlock eyed him silently, then set about making a cuppa.

“Tea, it makes everything better.” The genius said to John’s unspoken question, a crooked, shy smile on his face. He stood suddenly, staring at John intensely, as John stared back in embarrassed bewilderment.

“Oh! Right!” The detective said, skittering out of the room again. A moment later John heard running water. Sherlock returned with a wet flannel and a cup of water. He set both items on the tea tray, on John’s side, and looked down at the little setting, rather proudly.

“Well?” He asked in that excited puppy dog way of his, looking to John for approval.

“Well-“ John cut himself off, his voice a little high pitched from the crying. He cleared his throat and tried again. “Well, _what_?” he got out. Sherlock pouted slightly.

“Won’t you sit?” he motioned to John’s seat. Hesitantly, John sat. Sherlock, thankfully, didn’t hover, just curled up on his own seat, analyzing John’s every move. John, strangely enough, felt a bit comforted by that. It wasn’t often something got Sherlock’s full attention like this. It was flattering in a way John tried to suppress.

He sat and took up the cup of water, going through a few sips before noticing the two white pills, pain killers, for his headache, shoulder, or leg, John couldn’t tell. He obediently took the medicine and drained the rest of the cup. He simply stared at the flannel for a moment.

“It’s for your eyes.” Sherlock said, quietly, but matter-of-factly.

“My eyes?” John asked, feeling unbearably slow, though Sherlock didn’t seem to notice, just bit his lip and nodded. With a doubtful frown John took up the rag and covered his eyes. He couldn’t help the sigh of relief as the cool cloth met his face. His whole body relaxed back into the chair, legs going lax and spread. He wasn’t even feeling self-conscious about his lack of a packer at the moment.

“I had horrid night terrors when I was little.” Sherlock started up, his voice low and gentle, meant to calm. “My brother had the room next door. When he heard me, he’d go fetch a wet flannel. He wasn’t always terrible, Mycroft I mean. He’d stay up and trace Latin words on my back until I calmed down.” Sherlock said all this with an underlying vulnerability John had yet to hear from the man.

“We didn’t do this in my family.” John murmured lowly, remembering nights of fear. Hiding his head in a pillow to stop his cries, trying desperately not to irritate his father any further. His mother drugged out on stolen painkillers, Harry sneaking out to get away from their father. And John. Ever the honorable tin soldier, left to weather his fathers’ storm alone.

There had been no patience for tears and misery ( _though it was much deserved_ ) within the Watson house. And there had _certainly_ been no form of after care when the hell had passed for the night. This was a welcome change, an unexpected one that brought fresh tears to John’s eyes, though these where made of something like joy, comfort, relief and gratitude for this strange man John had found himself befriending.

After a long few moments John removed the now warm flannel, wiping the rest of his face. Sherlock was sipping on his tea, still watching John with his unblinking gaze.

“Why’d you do all this?” John asked as he took up his own cup. Sherlock looked away, flustered almost, and shrugged.

“I heard you fall. We’ve not had a case in a few weeks. Your PTSD was bound to manifest at some point.” John just looked at the man in something like fondness as he took a sip of the tea. “My Gran’s recipe.” Sherlock piped up when John looked into the cup in mild surprise. “Honey, from grandfathers hive, though not in this case I’m afraid. I’ve only a touch left from Grandfather’s final harvest; you understand. Chamomile, and a splash of milk. I know it’s a bit sweeter than you prefer but,” Sherlock shrugged, “helps me get back to sleep.”

John wanted to say something snarky and teasing, but when he opened his mouth, nothing would come out past the lump in his throat.

“Thank you.” John finally choked out, blowing gently on the tea before taking another sip. Sherlock blushed again and ducked his head, pleased.

As John, now sufficiently sleepy once more, trailed back up to his bedroom, a soft lullaby played on the violin drifted up from the living room. Half an hour later John turned on his side, drowsy and lax. Before he fell asleep, his last coherent thought was that he was sure he heard Sherlock’s door open and close when he fell. Did the man get out of bed just to comfort John?

The thought was a good one. John rested easy, knowing his strange guardian was just down the stairs.


	4. When Am I Gonna Lose You by Local Natives (Part 1)

**Wait, When Am I Gonna Lose You?**

 

 

****

It was late, or rather early. Dawn not yet dancing across the skies. John had fallen asleep in Sherlock’s bed yet again. It was the third time this week, and they’d only been like this for five days. Perhaps John just feared letting the genius go? For, now that he had him, John couldn’t imagine being without him.

It took John a moment to realize what had woken him, with a sleepy inhale he weakly lifted his head. His arm stretched out, meeting nothing but blanket and bed. It was lukewarm, Sherlock hadn’t been gone long enough for the bed to have gone properly cold. John debated getting up, perhaps Sherlock had merely been unable to sleep and gone to experiment? This whole situation was so new that John wasn’t sure where their boundaries were. What was ok? What wasn’t? Would intruding on Sherlock's four AM experiments cross the line from concerned to clingy?

These worries were chased away however, when John heard quiet sniffling from the living room. John stumbled up, blearily making his way out of the room. A part of him rejoiced that he had gotten so soft as to wander his home half asleep, the soldier part of him berated him for such weakness. He had decided many months ago, though, that he was allowed this simple luxury in his own bloody home, thanks very much. The war stayed outside; the world stayed locked out with it. In here John could relax, he could be vulnerable and soft, he was coming to appreciate that.

“Sh’rl’ck” he croaked groggily, rubbing at his eyes. The sniffling stopped. As John got his eyes opened properly, he furrowed his brow. Sherlock was sat in John’s chair, John’s coat draped over his lap. A cup of tea had gone cold at his elbow.

“John,” Sherlock gasped, turning. His eyes were red, he had a tissue crumpled in one hand. He stood suddenly, the coat dropping to the ground.

“What’s wrong?” John asked, concerned, as he moved closer, grasping Sherlock’s elbows.

“N- nothing” the detective stuttered through a small sob and sniffle. John frowned doubtfully.

“Did… did you have a nightmare?” John asked quietly, invading Sherlock’s space. After a moment Sherlock looked down, his lip wobbling as he nodded shyly. Tears started up again in his stormy eyes, John only caught a glimpse before Sherlock folded into the older man. A head of righteous curls tickled John’s nose as Sherlock’s face tucked into the soldier’s neck.

“What’d you dream about?” John asked quietly, enveloping Sherlock. Sherlock gave a sob again.

“Y-You died, and I couldn’t… I couldn’t do any-“ he cut himself off with a head shake, gripping John tightly.

“It’s ok” John whispered, “It’s ok Sherl, I’m here. I’m right here.” He tried soothing his ( _lover?_ ) friend.

“It was Victor all over again.” Sherlock croaked out so quietly John almost didn’t hear him.

Johns breath froze, he froze. There it was, _that_ name again. He hadn’t dared ask Sherlock about the name Moriarty had mentioned to him during his brief captivity. John had almost fooled himself into believing it was just another of Moriarty’s mind games, there had never been a “ _Victor_ ”, Sherlock had never been in love before John. ( _If John could be so presumptuous as to call this love, in such an early stage. They’d not even been intimate yet, merely kissing and falling asleep in each other’s arms. Yet still these were the most meaningful experiences of John’s life.)_

“ _What_ was Victor all over again?” John asked softly. Sherlock just shook his head.

He wouldn’t speak after that.

As the sun dawned it found the Baker Street boys curled together on the couch, Sherlock had drifted off at some point, his soft breaths puffing against John’s neck. The soldier sat stoically.

How well did he _really_ know this man?

How much grief was hidden behind those eyes?

How much of the arrogance and rudeness was meant to hold the world at bay?

How afraid was he of loss?

How did all of this mystery manage to make John fall even more in love with this strange, complex, _soft_ person? A turtle who showed his belly to none but John. How could John possibly hope to shoulder this honor? How could two people so stunted and emotionally damaged possibly hope to help piece one and other together after living lives as merely fragments of human beings?


	5. When Am I Gonna Lose You by Local Natives (Part 2)

**How Will I Let You Slip Through? Careless or Unkind?**

**i.e. the first big fight**

 

 

It was too much, Sherlock decided, _far_ too much. John had seen him last night, crying, weak, _human_. Sherlock sneered at the word. He _wasn’t_ , he wasn't  ~~human~~ weak, he was above such things. He learned his lesson last time, he _did_. Or at least he decided he did in that moment.

Mycroft had been right; he’d been right all along. All those years and years ago, decades gone by in blurs, Mycroft had warned him. That first day of grade school when he’d rushed home, excited, ecstatic, he met Mycroft before his mother, munching on a sandwich in the kitchen…

* * *

 

_“Myc! Mikey! Look!” the young Sherlock Holmes with his too long hair and too short school trousers had called excitedly as he stumbled into the kitchen table, proudly laying his prize out for his brother to see._

_“What_ is _it?” Myc asked, a haughty confusion on his face as he looked down at the bright orange and red finger-painted monstrosity in front of him._

_“There’s a boy in my class, his name is Victor, but he said I can call him Vic ‘cause he says he likes my Black Beard book. He made that for me during free time and…” Sherlock trailed off, his face melting into confusion at the pitying look upon his brothers face._

_“What’s wrong Myc?” Sherlock asked in confusion, slowly sliding the picture back towards himself. Mycroft was looking at him strangely, and old mans wisdom in the face of a 14-year-old boy._

_“Sherlock…” Myc said haltingly, “_ brother _,” he amended, “you will find, as you get older, that we are not like others. We are not… we’re not_ made _for their world, Sherlock. Any connections we make with the outside world are… doomed to be shallow at best.”_

_“But…” Sherlock trailed off, looking from his brother to the painting in his hands._

_"Involvement with the rest of humanity will only lead to regret and pain, brother mine.” Mycroft sighed, laying a heavy hand on the younger boy’s shoulder._

_“Mummy and Daddy aren’t regretful, or in pain.” Sherlock argued softly._

_“Mummy and Daddy aren’t like us, not fully.” Mycroft said, his logic sound. “Just… be careful with that boy.” Mycroft finally said with a deeply concerned frown, nodding towards the gift in Sherlock's small hands. “Don’t get involved, brother mine. Caring is not an advantage; this I swear you.”_

* * *

 

Damn the older man, but he was right, he had been right all along. Sherlock had ignored him once, and what had it left him with? A drug addiction, a dead lover, and a handful of wilting flowers stained with his tears.

 _No_.

No, he wouldn’t do this again. He’d been foolish, too caught up in how well he and John worked. He’d gotten possessive of John. But only because he was an asset to the Work. That was all, that was the _only_ reason. Sherlock steeled himself, repeating the lies over and over in his head. With a heart locked behind plexiglass, Sherlock stood from where he’d been brooding in his chair. He walked into his room, and before he could argue with himself, he gathered John’s few possessions that had found their way there and walked up the stairs dumping them on the soldier’s bed.

He couldn’t do this again, by putting himself at risk like this, he also risked _John’s_ safety. It had already happened. Moriarty had seen his love for John before even Sherlock had, he’d hurt the soldier, beat him, threatened him, _raped_ him. Whether John wanted to admit it or not, he had already suffered for Sherlock’s affections.

Last night had been the final straw. He had dreamt of another two-lane road, just like _that_ night. Another drunk driver eager to go around them, but John was in the driver’s seat instead of Victor this time around. And as the car crashed, he saw Moriarty hanging out of the drunk driver’s car window, laughing and pulling taunting faces at Sherlock. The car rolled into the ditch.

John stared at him with dead eyes, the image flickered. _John, Victor, John, Victor_. Past. Present.

And after he awoke, John, wonderfully alive John, had come to him. Touched him gently, soothing him, clearing away his tears.

It was too much. This was _different_ , this wasn’t Sherlock taking care of John ( _for he could argue himself that in caring for John he cared for the part of John that assisted the_ _Work. John was an asset. He was something that_ belonged _to Sherlock and Sherlock had to take care lest he break the man and lose his partner in crime, or rather crime fighting._ ) This was _more_ , it was personal, it was Sherlock’s walls being stripped without his say so. This was the enclosure around his long disused heart beginning to crack and crumble around the edges.

Dangerous.

Deadly.

 _Unacceptable_. 

* * *

 

When John came home, he went straight to Sherlock's room before Sherlock could say anything, probably looking for his lounge shoes. He came out a moment later, a strange look upon his face.

“Sherlock?” he asked, looking around his chair on the ground, as though assuming he’d left the shoes there, “D’ya know where my slippers are?”

Sherlock, who was at the desk typing on his laptop, felt his breathing pick up before he forced his body back in line. Heart rate dropped, breathing pattern even, no outward indication he was bothered.

“Hmm,” he hummed, “your room.” John froze, straightening. Sherlock could see how his throat bobbed, swallowing thickly.

“Why… why are they up there?” John asked quietly, Sherlock could see his hands curling into fists.

“Well, as that’s where your things _belong_.” Sherlock sniped, sneering at the man. He didn’t look at John, his resolve would snap if it did. John didn’t say anything, just turned and went back into Sherlock's room. A moment later he came out, frantic and angry.

“What the actual _fuck_ Sherlock? Is everything up there? Wh- why would you _do_ that?” John’s voice had risen in pitch, anger, confusion, heart ache.

“They were an unwelcome intrusion.” Sherlock snipped. John recoiled as if he’d been struck.

“Right.” John said after a moment, “right. I’m off.” He said, gruffly taking up his coat. As he reached the door Sherlock couldn’t keep himself from speaking up.

“Take your gun.” He ordered. John froze, half out the door, his back to the detective.

“Why would I do that?” John asked, he sounded fragile.

“You can’t seem to keep from getting kidnapped and I’d rather not have to come save you again.” Sherlock said, aiming for bored. He realized that he’d hit home when John physically recoiled.

“You- You utter and complete… fuck you Sherlock Holmes. Fuck you, fuck everything you do, fuck every breath you take, you utter fucking _monster_.” John was fighting tears now. Sherlock didn’t look at him.

“No, no John.” He said thickly, after a moment. “I’m not a monster. I’m a sociopath. And _you_ ought not kid yourself. You are useful to me. An asset to the Work. Nothing more.” John was gasping as though he’d run a marathon.

“That-“ the doctor choked out, “is utter horse shit. And when you fucking figure that out, you can call me. You’re only alone because you _want_ to be. You arsehole, I can’t… I’m leaving.” John forced himself out the door, probably fearing he’d raise a fist if he stayed any longer. He slammed the front door a moment later.

Sherlock buried his face in his hands.

* * *

 

Three days later the detective broke down and donned his coat. Mike Stamford had come by the day before, giving Sherlock a wide berth as he packed a bag of John’s things. When Sherlock asked where John was, Mike had just given him a disappointed look and shook his head.

That morning, a few hours before the detective left, Mycroft Holmes had stormed into his living room without so much as a how do you do, taken up a seat at John’s chair and glared at his brother.

“What the _hell_ are you doing?” he’d snarled gruffly.

“What you taught me to.” Sherlock snapped back. Mycroft sat frozen, a hard look on his face, before it melted into exhaustion.

“For gods sake Sherlock, what have you done?” he begged. Sherlock felt himself coming down from the place he had been floating in his own head. He hadn’t shaved or showered or eaten. Had he drunk anything? There was cold tea at his elbow. Ah, good, he probably wasn’t dying then.

“He got hurt. Like Vic, and I couldn’t do anything. I should have listened to you.” Sherlock admitted quietly, not meeting his brothers’ eye. The mans face broke for a moment, hopeless.

“Sherlock,” he breathed.

“He’ll die if he stays with me.” Sherlock cut his brother off.

“And I fear _you_ may die if he doesn’t.” Mycroft sighed deeply, rubbing his temples. “Sherlock, listen to me, alright? Put aside everything and anything I have ever taught you in a misguided attempted to protect you and _listen_ to me, listen to what I’m about to say and commit it to memory, do you understand?” Mycroft asked seriously. Sherlock analyzed his brother before nodding hesitantly.

“ _I was wrong_.” Mycroft said simply. “I was… misguided, I was young, naive and afraid. I’m still afraid, Sherlock, no, stop.” He sharply cut the younger man off when Sherlock opened his mouth to snark at his brother, Sherlock’s mouth audibly clicked closed. “Be quiet, for once, and listen to me. I feared for you. I feared for the broken heart you’d be subjected to. And my worse fears came true with Victor, you two were so in love. So young, so vulnerable. I feared the power he held to hurt you, and he died in the worst way, the absolute _worst_ way to hurt you. You were left with no rejection, no breakups, no responsibility in his death. Just utter loneliness. There was no vengeance to be had, no relief to be found but through grief.”

Perhaps if I had… If I had held you like the day that grandfather died, perhaps if I had loved you more you wouldn’t have torn yourself apart. I’m sorry for that, brother, _so_ sorry. But for god’s sake, don’t use my ill-informed lessons, my own inability to reach out to you as an excuse to close yourself again.”

You need John, you know you do. But more than that, you _want_ him. You want to be around him; you want domesticity and a life with that man.” Mycroft paused; one hand outreached slightly.

“Moriarty hurt him,” Sherlock said in a dead voice, “I _can’t_ bring him back Mycroft, Moriarty used him once. Others will do it again. Besides, I hurt him. He’s been gone three days, he wouldn’t even want-“

“Father once left for six days,” Mycroft said sharply, “do you remember that? Perhaps not, you weren’t even out of diapers. He and mother got into a terrible argument, I’ve no idea about what. He came back six days later with flowers.”

“They were married with children,” Sherlock sneered in exasperation.

“No, you fool!” Mycroft snapped, “they where in _love_. People argue, people do stupid things, they hurt each other and love each other and hurt each other all over.”

“I thought we weren’t people?” Sherlock asked quietly. Mycroft swallowed and shook his head.

“And I told you, I was wrong.”

* * *

 

Six hours later Sherlock had tracked John down using his credit cards. Honestly, the man needed better passwords. He had been couch surfing, it seemed, staying with a few friends he had told Sherlock about. Mike Stamford for a few nights, an old army buddy for another few. Always in proximity to his job. Sherlock paced outside the home of John’s old grad school friend, a man who had been kind through John’s transition.

When John began to walk down the street towards his friend’s house, he stopped dead in his tracks, about 10ft away from Sherlock and the front of the door. Sherlock stopped his pacing and nervous muttering, falling still. John’s face had gone blank, though his hands tucked in his coat were curled into fists and his jaw was clenched. Sherlock approached slowly, one step at a time, hesitant and sheepish.

“John-“ he started when he was close enough, then swallowed and shut his mouth, looking down at John’s feet in shame.

“Come back for your _asset_?” John sniffed, looking away from Sherlock. Sherlock felt himself sag a little.

“I- while it was true, you, you really _are_ a great asset to the Work,” Sherlock gave a wry chuckle before closing his eyes and shaking his head, “I only said that to hurt you.” He said quietly.

John cleared his throat, lifting his head slightly, “Yea, well, it fucking worked.”

“I know.” Sherlock said, looking back up, “I know. I just. I don’t know, I got scared. I said all those things to… I’m sorry.” Sherlock finished lamely, looking away.

“Why? Sherlock, _why_?” John asked in a broken voice. One of Sherlock’s hands reached out just slightly before he willed it down.

“I- I got scared.”

“Of what?!” John finally snapped in anger and pain. Sherlock flinched.

“You got hurt, badly. Vic got hurt. I couldn’t- I can’t protect you. Just like I couldn’t protect him. Next time… next time could be _worse_ , John. They could do this again, they could _kill_ you. Do you understand? You could _die_.” Sherlock said, suddenly fierce in his protective fear.

“So you insult me and push me away, is that it?!” John yelled.

“If I don’t care about you then you’re not a target.” Sherlock said stubbornly. John growled lowly, running one hand through his short locks.

“Don’t you think _I_ should bloody well get a say?” John hissed.

“You made your choice. You chose to stay; you chose to keep the target on your back.” Sherlock argued.

“Yea! I fucking did, you arse, and what does that fucking tell you?”

“It tells me you’re a damned _fool_ who thinks a fucking ex-junkie is worth _dying_ for!” Sherlock said fiercely, when he looked at John, though, the fight drained out of him. John was crying, his face drawn and tight. Sherlock shook his head, running his hand through his own hair. “It tells me you love me.” Sherlock amended. There was silence for a long moment.

“You can’t-“ the soldier cut himself off, humming and clearing the hurt from his throat, his face twisted and he shook his head slightly before taking a step closer. Speaking quieter, “you _can’t_ make these kinds of decisions alone anymore, ok? I know the risks, Sherlock. Moreover, I  _know_ you, don’t kid yourself for a moment I don’t. I _know_ you’re an arse, I know how you fuck with people’s heads to get what you want, I know you keep people at arm’s length because you’re hurting. I know how bad you can be, and don’t-“ John shook his head roughly, “don’t tell yourself that I’m foolish enough to think I can ever make you some- some _thing_ other than you. I, fucking Christ Sherlock Holmes, I swear to fucking god, I _love_ you despite all your thorns. So just- Just stop thinking this fucking life is going to scare me away. Stop thinking I won’t take whatever the world throws at us gladly. And for fucks sake, just fucking… let me be part of the conversation next time.”

Sherlock stared at John desperately, shocked hope blooming in his chest. “I- I will, I will. I- I got scared John. No one has seen me like that… never. No one, do you understand?” Sherlock whispered.

“And no one can see me like you.” John agreed with a sad smile. “God help me.” He added with a laugh. Sherlock slowly, hesitantly, reached out a hand, John took his own hand out of his coat pocket, meeting Sherlock halfway. They stood in silence for a moment, the night air ruffling their hair slightly.

“We’ll need to talk about this more.” John said sternly, suddenly.

“At… at home?” Sherlock asked hesitantly, hopefully. John seemed at war within himself for a moment. He was clearly still hurt and angry. “Please?” Sherlock pleaded quietly, holding John’s hand a little tighter. Something in the soldier softened for a moment, he seemed to deflate a little.

“Yea,” he whispered gruffly, stepping into Sherlock’s space, with every breath his chest brushing Sherlock’s coat “Yea, at home.”

Sherlock breathed a sigh of gratitude.


	6. Collide by Rachel Platten

**Although I'm Not Perfect, I Feel Perfect in Your Eyes**

 

 

 

 _Scritch_ , _scratch_ , long pause. The whisper of paper against skin, John’s small hum of disapproval.

Sherlock felt himself floating back into the present, he had taken up his classic thinking pose on their couch ages ago. For lack of anything better to do, he found himself mentally reviewing old cold cases. John had only been living here a few weeks and already he seemed to stretch and expand, laying his mark on 221B. Sherlock didn’t say anything, but he’d never felt so at home before. Sherlock turned his eye onto his roommate turned ( _friend?_ ) partner in crime fighting.

John looked beautiful, the sun light drizzling in through the window, casting the man in a golden haze. John was holding some kind of notebook in his right hand, and a pencil in the other. He was bent over the paper, erasing something with a thoughtful expression on his face.

“What are you doing?” Sherlock asked as he uncoiled and stood, taking one step over the coffee table and leaning over the back of John’s chair with the next.

“Oh,” the doctor said, a bit sheepishly, “I was just… sketching. I’m sorry if it bothers you, I can throw them out-“ John was blushing, embarrassed at being caught. Sherlock had tuned the man out, plucking the simple lined notebook from John’s hand with no preamble.

The notebook itself was old, blood and dirt painting the earlier pages. It was filled with sketches, rough lines and shadows tossed onto the pages in a haste. Broken bodies, somber young men in uniform with guns strapped across their backs, dismembered limbs, bloodied local civilians in Arab dress with darkened skin, multiples of a man with piercing eyes and a gruff smile. He was half nude in some. The only ray of light in an array of terrors.

Then nothing. A few blank pages, then one aborted sketch. The lines wobbled, weak and light, barely marks upon the page. There was a mark where John had snapped a pencil against the page in frustration.

Sherlock flipped another page and stopped, tilting his head in confusion. He looked into his own face, he had his hands steepled in front of his face, his eyes closed. The shadows danced across his jaw and cheekbones, giving him a sharper appearance. He found it hard to tell where the shadows stopped, and he began. It was fitting, he supposed, Sherlock lived a life half in the shadows, drifting through life pretending he belonged in a world of light.

He flipped the page, more sketches of him, some of his empty chair, and obviously the sketch John had been working on. It was incredible, especially considering the lack of tools at John’s disposal, the image was almost photo realistic. As if the bits of graphite would begin to slide across the page, shadows expanding and growing with the setting sun. The image depicted Sherlock stretched out on the couch, thinking. The drawing took up the whole page, surely it had taken John hours to capture Sherlock and the background of 221B so faithfully.

Something in Sherlock's chest twisted as he pictured another artists hands, dark with melanin, larger, less scarred. Decades younger.

Hands just as treasured and sacred.

“These are quite good.” Sherlock finally said. He didn’t look at John, but he could bet the man was blushing.

“Thanks.” He said quietly, surprised.

“Why haven’t I seen you doing this before?” Sherlock asked, puzzled. John cleared his throat, uncomfortable.

“I- ah… I haven’t done any drawing since the war. My um… my arm-“ John cut himself off, Sherlock flashed his eyes down, the doctor was shifting in discomfort, “my tremor, made it hard to… I couldn’t hold the pencil right. I… I thought I’d try again, you know, _now_.” John stressed, shrugging, attempting nonchalance. Something purred in Sherlock’s chest, pleased at yet _another_ piece of this man he had put back together.

“Ah…I see you’ve had this since before the war.” Sherlock said in that bored, not-asking-but-still-asking way of his.

“Ah, um, during actually. Snagged it out of a box of supplies.” John said sheepishly. Sherlock couldn't fight the probably bit-not-good smile from picturing a much younger John Watson nicking simple office supplies in order to jot down the horrors around him. How perfectly in line with the wonderfully polar man he had the pleasure of seeing every day. A man of true opposition. Beauty and death in one pencil stroke, blood and art seamlessly integrated at John’s hands.

“You ought to get some proper supplies. If this is what you can do with notebook paper and a regular pencil, I’d be intrigued to see what you do with the real thing.” Sherlock said, feigning nonchalance as he dropped the notebook back into John's lap.

“Ah, thanks?” John said, bewildered as his strange flatmate drifted into the kitchen, making them a pot of tea.

* * *

 

Two days later John found a proper sketchbook and a set of drawing pencils laid out on his bed.


	7. Accidentally in Love by Counting Crows

**I Don't Know, Well, Maybe I'm in Love**

 

 

 

“He’s your son.” The man, no, _boy_ , said to Greg in a bored tone. The fresh-faced Detective Sergeant, who had been walking by the holding cells to fetch an alleged serial killer, paused, then looked into the cell he was walking by. There was a boy there, perhaps in his mid-20’s at the most, clearly a junkie. His hair was matted and greasy, his eyes blood shot and dilated, two crystal orbs set deep into a gaunt face.

Strung out,

Sleep deprived,

High as a goddamned kite.

And here this kid was, presumably talking to Greg. Who had literally nothing to do with him.

“Wha-“ the DS started.

“Your _son_ ,” the junkie said in a bored tone, though his eyes roved over Greg from head to toe in an intense manner, “he’s yours. Not the other mans, you’ve been worried about it. Now, if your smart, you’ll divorce the mother, quickly and as civilly as possible. She’ll rip away your custody rights first chance she gets, don’t let her fuck you over, Detective Sargent…” the boy lurched forward, squinting at his badge, “ _Lestrade_.”

Intrigued, but also a bit paranoid, Greg took a step closer. “How do you know all this?” he asked suspiciously. The boy just broke into snorts and giggles.

“He says, he says, how do I know? Vic, can you believe-“ the junkie looked next to him, then doubled over in giggles again. Greg furrowed his brow and flashed his eyes around. The cell was empty save the man. So, who did the lad think he was talking to?

“What’s your name, kid?” Greg demanded. The boy stopped giggling, then sat heavily on the cot.

“What’s it matter to you?”

“Well, seeing as you seem to know my whole life’s story-“ Greg snarked. The boy groaned and rolled his eyes.

“I didn’t _know_ , you bloody moron, I _saw_. Clear as day, painted across you in neon colors. Like a bloody sign on your back. It’s obvious to anyone with working eyes.” Greg eyed him for a minute, but when the boy zoned out, seeming to forget the DS, Greg grudgingly left.

 

* * *

 

 

Two months later the kid was back. Still high as a fucking kite, still wearing the same clothes as last time. This time he was snarking off to three police constables. One boy, probably about the same age as the strange junkie in the cell, was crying. His companions were fluttering about, trying to comfort the lad. Curious, Greg made his way over.

“-now if you were a sentimental sap of minimal intelligence, you would go back to her right this moment. With or without a damned ring.” The junkie kid sneered. His voice was bored, but full of malice and arrogance. Greg gaped in shock as the lad nodded to the kid in the cell and turned, fleeing out the door. The other two PC’s just stared after their comrade.

“Oi!” Greg snapped, both PC’s turned, still shell shocked, “go get back to work, quit standing around, will ya?” Greg glared and crossed his arms. When neither PC moved, he scowled deeper and took a step forward. This seemed to spur the policewoman into action, and she snapped to attention, dragging her coworker away.

Hesitantly, Greg approached the man again.

“They’re gonna put you in bloody solitary if you keep that up, you know.” He said to the young man. The boy snorted.

“Ah, Detective Sargent, one can only hope.” Greg couldn’t help a small smile at the boy’s tongue.

“You gonna tell me your name yet, or do I have to guess?” Greg asked in good humor, leaning against the bars. The boy analyzed him for a minute before rolling his shoulders and standing. Greg was surprised to see how tall the lad was when he wasn’t hunched over or sitting. He easily towered over Greg, and probably many other people.

“Sherlock Holmes, at your service.” The lad, Sherlock, tipped his head slightly. Greg analyzed him for a moment, sucking air through his teeth before an idea struck him.

“You just sent that boy to get engaged, didn’t you?”

“He’s been waiting too long, idiot.” Sherlock sneered.

“You knew about my son.” Greg continued.

“Yes,” Sherlock said, narrowing his eyes.

“And my wife’s affair,”

“Yes…”

“And you damn near gave Phillips a heart attack when you told everyone his Da’ was a drunk son of a bitch. Not that he didn’t deserve it, mind. He’s a right cock, nice to know who made him that way.”

Sherlock smirked smugly, before his brow furrowed, “and what, Detective Sargent, is your point?”

Greg looked about him and motioned the boy closer, when Sherlock stepped up to the bars, Greg leaned in. “How’d you like to be of _real_ service?” Greg asked quietly. Sherlock raised a single brow, intrigued.

 

* * *

 

 

Sherlock helped Greg find the evidence to close his current case and pointed him the right direction to close 3 cold ones, all in the span of an hour. Greg was beyond _impressed_ ; he was baffled.

When Sherlock was allowed to leave, seemingly always without ever being charged formally or even given a court date, Greg nodded to him in respect.

Two weeks later the lad was back, he seemed a bit better this time, his eyes a bit more alive, less grey. He helped Greg shut down a sex trafficking ring. Greg was promoted and given a raise.

A week later he returned, the lad had showered this time, the hair Greg originally thought to be black was actually a dark, dark auburn with a touch of red. Sherlock helped Greg catch a man who had murdered his brother-in-law because he was in love with his own sister. Greg never would have caught that. But _Sherlock_? Sherlock didn’t even have to bloody speak to the man, just looked at him through the two-way glass for a few moments.

* * *

 

When Sherlock Holmes returned, yet again, a week after, Greg decided the kids’ gig was up. When the older man approached the cell, Sherlock sprang up, almost vibrating with excitement.

“I know what your doing, kid.” Greg said, leaning against the cell casually. Sherlock’s brow pinched in frustration.

“Oh?” he said, challengingly.

“Yep. And if you want to keep it up, we’re striking a deal, you ‘n me.” Greg replied, stern. The boy pouted, curling in on himself.

“What _kind_ of deal?” he asked sullenly, probably already knowing the answer.

“You go to a rehab center, tonight, and I don’t see you again until you’re clean and sober.” Greg shrugged nonchalantly, as if he hadn’t just asked this lad to tackle a task that most men, far stronger than Greg even, would undeniably fail. The boy froze, almost snarling. Then his face smoothed out, his brown creasing in concentration.

He sat.

And thought, hands steepled against his mouth.

They sat in silence.

And more silence.

And more silence.

And more silence.

Finally, the boy sighed, sitting up fully and running a hand through his hair. He almost looked exhausted.

“Very well,” he said, standing. “Let me make a call.” It wasn’t a question.

Greg complied anyway. He stayed close by as the lad punched in a number and waited for the ringing to stop. There was silence on both ends, nothing was said. Finally, the boy sighed in frustrated defeat.

“Mycroft,” he said grudgingly, “I’m ready.” A voice on the other end of the line sighed in relief.

* * *

 

Three hours later, after the boy had been bailed out over the phone and seen off in a dark nondescript car by Greg himself, a man in a three piece with a sharp nose and an umbrella appeared at the corner of Greg’s new desk.

“Greg Lestrade?” the man asked, Greg looked to him, fumbling a little as he stood.

“Ah, yea, can I help you?” Greg asked, tugging at his shirt a little. The strange, sharp man smiled a little, a tight thing that looked out of place on a face seemingly made of wax and porcelain edges.

“No, not yet, anyway… I’ve actually come to thank you.”

“Thank me?” Greg asked, lost.

“Yes. You seem to have had quiet the influence on my little brother. So, I’ve come to thank you, and ask… ask simply that you keep your promise, once he gets out.” The man shrugged, though there was something vulnerable in his posture. It all clicked for Greg suddenly.

“Oh, you’re Mycroft I take it. Brother, I imagine?” Mycroft looked at him with a sad half smile.

“You did in less than three months what I’ve been trying to do with Sherlock for almost three years.” Mycroft admitted. Greg shrugged, suddenly uncomfortable with the ridiculously intense man. He kind of wanted to know what the hell was going on in this odd family, the story behind this posh man and his strung-out brother. But he had a feeling such knowledge would be life altering.

“He’s a great kid, I just don’t think he knows it. He’s gonna help a lot of people, if he can just keep his nose clean.”

“And his head clear.” Mycroft grumbled in clear frustration. Hesitantly, Greg set a hand on the man’s arm.

“Look, I don’t know him much, and I don’t know you, but I know the kids got a great mind. I imagine it’s bursting at the seams, yea? Not enough space in his head to keep it contained, it’s hard to keep people like that on the straight and narrow. But tell ‘im… tell him as long as he manages it, he’s got a place here. Sod the rules, I’ll find a way around it.” Mycroft looked dumb struck.

“You’re not…” the man started. Greg furrowed his brow in confusion.

“Not what?” he asked, belatedly realizing his hand was still on the man’s arm and removing it while trying not to flush.

“You don’t want him here to help you climb the ranks, do you?” Greg gave a startled chuckle.

“What? Oh, god no Mr. Holmes. I just… Look, every time your brother has come in since I let him look at some cold cases, he looks healthier, cleaner, a little more sober and alive. I’d just hate to see him slip back; you know?”

And that, Mycroft would say years later, was the exact moment he knew he could possibly, one day, maybe, love Greg Lestrade.

* * *

 

Of course, Greg didn’t realize he was in love until three years later. He and his wife were over, officially, totally over. He still had partial custody though, and he supposed that was as good as he could expect now that he was a single man. Greg had just returned to his new flat that cold December night when his mobile rang.

“Greg,” Mycroft said, curt and strained. Greg was at full attention.

“What is it? What’s wrong?” Greg said sharply, already moving for his coat.

“It- it’s Sherlock. H-he’s,” Mycroft took an audible inhale, quiet for a moment, composing himself. “he’s hurt, badly. Stabbed, I- I don’t...”

“What hospital?” Greg asked as he bounded down the steps of his flat, heading outside to grab a cab.

“St. Barts.”

“I’ll be there in 20 minutes.” Greg snapped the phone shut, bribing the cabbie to break every speed limit on the way. ( _I’ll make sure you don’t get a bloody ticket, just drive man!_ )

* * *

 

Eighteen minutes later found Greg Lestrade running up to the third floor where Mycroft had directed him via text. The first thing he saw was Sherlock laying on the bed. He was paler than usual. He looked small and young, none of the venom and vitriol Greg had come to associate with the man. Mycroft looked a mess, or what passed as a mess for him. Which of course meant he still looked like he’d walked off a magazine set. He had shed his jacket and rolled up his shirt sleeves. He was standing at Sherlock’s bedside, looking down at his brother, hands in his pockets. His face was drawn. He looked to Greg with something like relief.

“Greg,” he breathed, moving to take a step closer to the man. Greg instantly clutched the politician’s shoulders.

“Hey, hey what happened? How is he?”

“The stupid, foolish boy,” Mycroft hissed, suddenly blinking far too quickly. He leaned farther into Greg, “he went after a damned jewel thief, alone. A private case. I let him… he said he’d be _careful_. He’s fine, they say he’ll be fine, back to normal in a few months, as long as he doesn’t pull the stitches. I don’t know why I called, I just…” Mycroft drifted off, he looked lost, confused at his own actions.

“It’s alright,” Greg soothed, “you can always call me when he’s being an idiot, you know that.” Greg gave a half smile and Mycroft returned it hesitantly.

“Ah, but then we’d be on the phone all day, every day, yes?” Mycroft joked. Greg grinned at him.

“Would that be so bad?” Greg quipped. The Detective Inspector blinked suddenly, shocked at himself, had he really just flirted with _Mycroft Fucking Holmes_? At his little shite of a brother’s hospital bed side?!

Mycroft’s face melted into something hesitant but hopeful. “No,” he whispered, serious and half silent, private. “I suppose it wouldn’t be.”

Greg realized, then, that Mycroft’s dark eyes were, in fact, blue and not brown like he’d always thought. And, suddenly, he was absolutely gone for this man.

 

* * *

 

They moved into Mycroft’s mansion of a home two years later, a year after that found them married. When Sherlock was forced to flee the country to save his friends, Greg among them, they held each other for comfort when the worry got to be too much.


	8. Power Over Me by Dermot Kennedy

**You've got that power over me...**

**Everything I hold dear resides in those eyes.**

 

 

Nothing special, that’s what John Watson was doing on this lazy Monday morning. Off work, no cases. The flat was quiet, John was up early, as always. Nothing new there.

But Sherlock was also up, unable to sleep the night before.

John looked beautiful as he shuffled into the room, Sherlock froze over his microscope. His mind short circuited as this mussed and sleep ruffled piece of glory greeted him with a rough “ _Morning, love_ ”. Did he not see what he did to Sherlock? He must not have, because he blearily made his way to the coffee pot on the counter, checking the water back and the coffee grinds before starting a morning brew. John rubbed his eyes with a yawn.

Dear god, Sherlock felt his heart stutter.

Every inch of John Watson was perfection, from his veined feet to the blonde hair on his calves, to his middle. Soft and firm, no longer defined but still trim. The scars dotting his chest a testament to the fact that his unique kind of amazing wasn’t just skin deep. His pecs just that side of uneven, nipples that side of too symmetrical, the starburst of a gunshot on his shoulder. His face, golden, tanned by a life spent outside, and pock marked by years of HRT induced acne. His hair. God help him, Sherlock could write sonnets to that hair. Golden, shot through with silver, proclaiming to the world what a treasure John Watson truly was. Worth far more than his weight in gold.

And his hands. A soldier’s hands, a healer’s hands, a lover’s hands. How softly they touched Sherlock, even when the detective knew he didn’t deserve it. Stitching Sherlock together with care, carrying out acts of violence in his name.

His eyes, ocean blue, a little closer to brown in the center. Surrounded by laugh lines.

How? How did this man, with so much misery in his life, have a face stamped with joy? How, though he found himself stuck with Sherlock, of all people, did John still smile so much?

Sherlock would never deserve this man, no matter how much he tried, he would never be worthy of this perfect being. This life saver, this angel, if Sherlock believed in such things. Sherlock felt his heart pang in utter gratitude, all too aware of his unworthiness. John deserved perfection, perfection to compliment himself. Not Sherlock, not an ex-drug addict who was too tall, who was too thin, his nose too large, chin not defined enough.

“Want some coffee, love?” John asked. Sherlock felt his brain short circuit once more, the whole world suddenly reeling and picking up speed.

“Yes,” Sherlock said, breathless. John just smiled at him softly before pouring him a cup. As the soldier set the mug at Sherlock’s elbow, he leaned in and kissed Sherlock’s cheek. Sherlock felt a bolt of electricity run through him, from the point of contact to his toes.

“I love you.” John breathed against his cheek, coffee and morning breath, grown out hair tickling Sherlocks temple.

“I love you too, my John.” Sherlock replied, staring at John with barely concealed adoration.

Had this man any idea the power he held over Sherlock Holmes? Had this man any idea the depths of Sherlock’s loyalty and commitment, the lengths he had gone to, the places he _would_ go to keep John safe, to keep him happy? The way John’s eyes softened as he ran them over Sherlocks face said “ _yes_ ”.

They said, “ _me too, you’re not alone in this, my love_ ”.

God bless everything that was John Watson.


End file.
